


Nothing is without its taste

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you hate it, cover your eyes,” Tim murmurs, and for a second he’s comforted, settling under the annoyed twitch in Damian’s fingers, the slick dampness that’s neither quick to dry, salty sweat or even quicker, hastier to dry iron blood — neither of them are dying any faster than they usually do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing is without its taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [varebanos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varebanos/gifts).



“And you’d be satisfied with this,” Damian raises his voice, forces it into dangerous places, the same way the pressure he’s spreading through his bare forearm into Tim’s faint, hazy suffocation does, suffocation Tim pretended to fall into, pretended to feel running through his consciousness, losing his breath with Damian’s tremble more than anything else; they’re both hard and the abandoned training ground rattles with lonely silence, the shudder dissolving into a shiver that skids down Tim’s skin and what’s going to make Damian even angrier, is that Tim plans on lying, even now, when Damian’s three breathy rustles from touching him with his powder dry, whitened fingers, when moments’ are seconds’ away from being memories and he’s going to punch Tim’s mouth or kiss it, and Tim thinks he doesn’t care if it’s Damian’s knuckles or his teeth, it’s a connection either way.

“You’re crazy,” Damian answers and it seems that Tim gave _his_ answer, too and thoughts often sound out of place when they’re transferred out of minds into mouths, threads of context either limp suggestions or not visible at all, and Damian repeats: “You’re _batshit_ crazy.” and that’s too funny for it not to reverberate through the whole of his belly, the pattern of his ribs, and his aching shoulders; there’s a pebble digging into his skin.

“I think you’re pretty crazy too,” he says as he settles down, as the laugh morphs into the sound of motion, Damian’s palm is rougher than before.

“At least I am not a coward,” Damian says and — it’s true. Whenever there are things, _situations_ (people) that require words rather than orders, honesty rather than stealth, bare bones before batarangs — Tim is known for running. His own, stuck, still kind of running that stops most of him, a motion that’s distant, quiet, a motion that doesn’t reflect movement at all and it doesn’t mean anything, in the long (important, _crucial_ ) run.

( _He wouldn’t answer Dick’s calls, he wouldn’t think about Kon being dead to the world and soil and sea, he wouldn’t let Cassie or Steph or_ anyone _talk him into their concerns that were nothing but constriction because he won’t help Bruce_ here _, he won’t save anyone in the cradle of their arms and he wouldn’t tell Dad he misses the way he clasped his shoulders, when he was smaller, shorter, when he barely learned to do a backflip without bruising all of his back and he wouldn’t touch Damian, not when they’re showering in neighbouring stalls and Tim can tell when he’s leaning away from the water, when he’s stepping closer to the wall of Tim’s own cubicle and when he’s about to slip, catching balance as if the vertigo is nothing but soapy bubbles, lighter against the sun, heavier when they reach Damian’s warm, strained thighs but it’s his own  fingers he’s thinking about now and Bruce’s kid he’s bursting against and it’s not like anything solves with doing that so he doesn’t, washes the soap away from between his toes and heel and the damp tiles, wonders why it’s such a lonely feeling.)_

Tim’s eyes flicker to Damian’s, and even though Damian is focused on finding a way for his wrist not to get chafed by Tim’s sweats, it washes away the fatigue Tim’s soaked in, suddenly, stone droppingly so and he tumbles them around, presses Damian to the softer ground, says: “I’d be okay, the way it was.” and Damian fists his shirt, eyes sharp slits that make Tim slightly nauseous, in the better, forbidden way slow arousal feels like to his brain and Damian tugs him down, somewhere between his legs, somewhere into the borders of their skin, damp barriers, just so he can bite a moan out of  Tim’s mouth as he stitches his shoulder, harshly, with teeth that resemble smiles of the days Tim would forfeit, on purpose, lose his balance just so Damian would touch him in an unexpected, rushed way, just so Tim’s whole body could hitch and Damian could suspect and of course he’d knew, of course he’d press and press an inch more, of course he’d curve so Tim’s weight couldn’t push through and it’s been — pathetic, really. Of Tim.

To think things like these work.

“I don’t know what’s more infuriating, the blatant lie or the face you’re pulling right now,” Damian hisses, strips him bare and Tim is looking, his own fingertips decoding the zipper of Damian’s shirt, translating quivers into bones and creaks into muscles, relies on the diagram of Damian’s dotted lines of shrapnel left on his skin, mouths one curve with his palm and curls his knuckles into the other, Damian drags his fingers up Tim’s thigh.

(They’re dead tired; both of them. But they’re alive.)     

“If you hate it, cover your eyes,” Tim murmurs, and for a second he’s comforted, settling under the annoyed twitch in Damian’s fingers, the slick dampness that’s neither quick to dry, salty sweat or even quicker, hastier to dry iron blood — neither of them are dying any faster than they usually do.

(Come to think of it, it’s going to comfort him all night.)   

“I have a better idea. Not that that’s surprising,” Damian says, with his lazy dose of arrogance and he grabs Tim’s face, holds his palms to his jaws as if he’s giving a report, as if he’s transmitting more than warmth and dirt and then he licks Tim’s mouth, first, before Tim slips into the kiss Damian’s been planning, has been angling them into this whole afternoon, and if Tim’s lucky, Damian has been thinking about it, in the shower, his bed, a foreign rooftop, too.

(Thinking it’s something they’ll end up rushing into. Thinking, there’s going to be an argument, a fight, connecting their mouths at the same time, the same way the touch will.)

Nothing is one sided, or shallow, or bland with them.

Nothing is without its taste.

—-

Truth is; Tim hasn’t slept in days. Three, if he had to count, if he were to make dusty, ghost counters in the brittle ground and it amounts to the times he’s splattered Damian’s palm by now, their weight slipping through Damian’s silhoulette right into his limbs, from toes to knees to shoulders that weren’t lead, weren’t this helplessly heavy mere seconds ago.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Damian states then, somewhat bitter, somewhat resigned, aware of Tim’s dozing mind, of his drunk motion, all signs that Tim’s eyes are damp with sleep and Tim’s palms  rub at his skin; he always looks vulnerable, tired out of his mind.

“It’s not like I didn’t want to. I just — couldn’t.” He shrugs and it drains all of his energy, his shoulders slack, his mouth dry. “I feel like I could fall asleep here though.” and Damian’s not saying anything, lulling the silence into a bedtime story, into soundless consent and Tim’s lost when Damian shifts, he’s gone when Damian borrows his palms to tug him up.

He carries him, on his back, Tim’s nose brushing against his neck, right until he drops him on the pile of blankets they’ve found in their lockers, covering Tim’s bare feet.

(It’s not unpleasant, or strange, or completely annoying, like he’d thought it would be.

It’s not infuriating, either.)

—-

He’s awake, in minutes, focuses on Damian’s shoulders he sees through the distance, nearly copying Bruce’s, Damian on his feet, slicing air into molecules, silently, like he’s being forced to be a whisper.

(Important is: he’s not bleeding, or losing consciousness, or still.)

Tim drifts back, stays longer, awakes again, a few more times.

But the worst of it, the living turning dead, Damian turning ghosts (or worse), is being secured now.

(Secured by the anchor of Damian’s living, breathing, present motion.)

Tim sleeps.


End file.
